


I Said to the Star

by gonan



Series: cannibalism [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalistic Thoughts, M/M, does that count as vore, for the sake of my sanity let’s say no, in like an ‘i want to be eaten’ way, no beta we die like men, will is super horny in a weird way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonan/pseuds/gonan
Summary: Will sometimes wonders what it would be like to live inside Hannibal’s stomach.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: cannibalism [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1770391
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	I Said to the Star

Will sometimes wonders what it would be like to live inside Hannibal’s stomach.

He wonders what the soft inner lining would feel like against his skin, if the acid bubbling at the bottom would begin eating at him right away or if he would get to sit and bask in the wet warmth of the man’s body for a time before fusing with him indelibly.

He wonders which parts of him Hannibal’s body would deem as waste and which would have the privilege of being converted into precious energy, if he would be recognized in the gestures and movements Hannibal made after he’d fully digested Will.

He wonders who else would be in there with him, what stories they could tell. He wonders if some of them would remember him. 

But most of all, he wonders what it would be like to be inside of Hannibal. Physically. Completely. He doesn’t think it would be much different from how they are now.

Hannibal is sitting across the table from him, sipping at his Bordeaux with the sort of silence and delicacy that only comes with either practice or innate grace. Will knows from experience that it’s the latter. He doesn’t know how he does it sometimes, just how he doesn’t know what shift in the room has Hannibal sensing his attention and peering up at him over the rim of his glass. Sometimes he thinks Hannibal can read his mind. Then again, sometimes he thinks he can read Hannibal’s — he certainly can now, that one perfectly arched brow telling him to say what’s on his mind before his prolonged staring starts to be perceived as rude.

Will succumbs to his gaze perhaps a bit more easily than he would’ve liked to, given the subject of his ruminations. He shifts in the heavy oak chair he’s perched on and tries to phrase his question in a way that doesn’t sound redundant. “Have you ever thought of...eating me?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, as nonchalant and matter-of-fact as he would be if he’d been asked whether he had picked up the groceries. “Many times. Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious,” Will’s mouth starts to water as he speaks, because no truer words have ever left his lips until now. He wants to know, with an aching sort of urgency, whether Hannibal would make a fillet of him and score his skin to get it crisp or if he would swallow him down raw. Whole. “How would you prepare me?”

Hannibal doesn’t seem to need much time to think it over, swirling his wine around in its glass once before laying out the menu for Will as if he’d gotten it printed on heavy cream card stock and embossed with gold lettering ahead of time. “Well, you have wonderful lungs. No prior history of smoking. I should like to sauté them in olive oil with fresh onion and tomato — after they’ve been boiled of course,”  _ of course _ , as if Will is any bit the chef Hannibal is, “Prime cuts of your heart would be sliced evenly and pan seared as close to rare as I could manage without feeling them try to beat again,” his smile curls itself into the grooves of said heart, momentarily brushing against the grain of it as something in his tone displaces Will’s blind confidence in his vision. “Now, your liver is not up to the standard of health that I would prefer,” — he looks pointedly over to Will’s glass of whiskey — “but I’m nothing if not innovative.”

Will hums. This is not the answer he found himself wanting. He’s not entirely sure what answer he had been seeking when he asked, but if he’s honest with himself he was hoping Hannibal’s plans for him would include far less assembly. He thinks of the canary, beak and all, passing Hannibal’s lips and being cradled fully by the tight heat of his tongue and throat as they work over its bare flesh.

“I don’t believe that you have answered my question,” Hannibal says, inadvertently interrupting a particularly dangerous train of thought from progressing in polite company. “Why did you ask me this?”

“No reason in particular,” Will tries, and fails, to throw him off the scent of what could end up being the single most revealing conversation they’ve had should they continue on like this.

“I’m a clinically trained psychiatrist, Will. I can tell when you are lying to me,” he says, almost casual in the way he’s putting Will on the spot. “The dilation of your pupils and your irregular breathing tell me that this topic of conversation holds some form of... _ interest _ to you. Why?”

“Do people usually have reasons behind the sort of things that  _ interest _ them?” Will asks, spearing a stalk of asparagus with a mite more force than is strictly necessary. 

“Sometimes,” Hannibal says, charitably ignoring the clank of Will’s careless stab against his white china plate. “Whether deep-seated or blatant, often events that cause trauma or introduce one to their own sexuality will manifest later in life as such interests,” Will’s hackles raise immediately at the mention of _trauma_ , a word he’s never sure he’s allowed to use for fear of diluting its severity. Hannibal takes notice of it straight away. His voice drops to a soothing baritone as he presses on, “So tell me, Will. What event in your life has led you to such an interest?”

“You have,” all the air leaves Will with his admission, a piece of himself following the carbon on its journey across the room to reach the other man. Though his words sound absurd, they ring true; Hannibal is more of an event than a man, a happening that no one is the same before or after encountering. 

The doctor tuts quietly, not dismissive but unconvinced. “I don’t believe that to be entirely true. From what you have told me, the few pleasant memories you shared with your father took place fishing on the docks by your childhood home,” the reminder sends both a cold chill and a swooping sensation dropping through his torso at once. The days he spent baiting hooks with his dad had not been dissimilar to the nights he now spends hunting with Hannibal, but he’s not sure what this information will do for him other than unearth the taunting voice of Sigmund Freud from beyond the grave. “Perhaps the use of gathering sustenance as a form of bonding has burrowed itself permanently into your psyche.”

“Perhaps,” Will concedes. 

“Or perhaps you could simply be projecting your heightened empathy onto whatever or whomever I decide to make my next meal,” this line of reasoning comes nearer to reality than the last, but what he says next is even further from it, “Is it due to your low self-esteem that you picture yourself in the place of those I’ve deemed unworthy of the air they steal from others?”

“Or, I simply wish to be close to you,” Will’s patience for this game of twenty questions is wearing thin, dampening the growing  _ something _ he’s been cultivating low inside himself at the thought of being cut into with the same precision those nimble fingers demonstrate with a steak knife now. “Could we put a pause on the psychoanalysis until after I’ve finished eating?”

“You are close to me, Will,” Hannibal blinks, the closest approximation to surprise Will thinks he’ll ever see him express. Will very nearly scoffs, thinking better of it a moment before he can embarrass himself and turning his attention back to his meal. 

“You know what I mean,” Will fills his hemming maw with another bite of food, butter coating his palate and sticking to the dry ridges of it.

“I do. I’d like to hear you say it though.”

Will looks up from his fork to meet Hannibal’s eyes and they’ve gone black and golden in the dim candlelight surrounding them. His pupils have grown and grown until they’ve become separate living things, pulsing and wavering with their own intensity. Hannibal’s watching him, as he always does, waiting to see what he’ll do next and seemingly pleased by the results each time. 

Will chews. Swallows. Feels the rough drag of the bleeding meat catch on the walls of his throat as it goes down.

“I want you to consume me.”


End file.
